The 27 Club
by Your Iron Lung
Summary: The 27 Club is host to elite rock stars who'd met their untimely end; they'd led reckless lives filled with drug abuse till it killed them, and Worth wanted nothing more than to join them in their great gig in the sky, for fear of getting old.


Brian Jones. Jimi Hendrix. Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison and Kurt Cobain. Popular, influential musicians with one terrible common factor; they'd all died at the ripe old age of 27. Musicians, who, at their peak, in the prime years of their life, had been cut down by one catastrophic realization: mortality.

27 is the age where one thinks they are immortal, invincible, and can take on the world in a fight of the ages and come out grinning. A sort of quest that every rock star wants to accomplish, amplified by that 'live fast, die young' code of being. It was something Luce Worth had pressed onto himself ever since he was old enough to understand what 'Forever 27' meant.

Growing old was not something that appealed to the young Luce Worth. The very notion that one day he may not be able to take care of himself was appalling, sickening, and was quite simply not on his agenda. He took refuge in knowing that other people, people he idolized, felt the same, and rather than face that kind of future, had forced their turn.

They drank, did drugs, and lead reckless lives until it killed them, giving themselves an untimely end. And so Luce did the same, following in their legendary footsteps to create a life that seemed somewhat satisfactory to him. It got so bad he'd ended up dropping out of med school and cutting off all ties with his family, spiraling so deep into his self-imposed grave that it seemed with every waking moment he was just waiting to drop dead. He wanted to be a part of that great gig in the sky so terribly he could barely recognize what was going on around him, let alone what was happening _with_ him.

It came to him, eventually, that there was something missing in his great equation of death, something tangible but with no great meaning. So far, he hadn't had to endure some great, lasting hardship that would pressure him into wanting a life such as this, as most of those great rock stars had. There was no justifiable reason for his actions other than the slightly redundant fear of getting old. Those rockers who'd self-medicated with drugs and alcohol had hidden problems and traumas that kept plaguing them, and that was why _they_ had done it, but for Worth, it was just a selfish desire to be done with himself.

He just didn't care anymore. Couldn't bring himself to care. There was no one who remotely gave a fuck about him, and likewise he couldn't say there was anyone he readily gave a fuck about. Not that he minded any, he preferred a life devoid of any and all social interactions.

But then there was Lamont.

The stocky Franco-Italian who only hung out with Worth because there was nothing better to do, their long years of friendship making him tolerable to the almost-not-quite doctor's overall crabbiness, lugging all sorts of shit around for the sickly thin man. He did indulge in some drug usage, he admit, but he couldn't quite grasp all the fascination with that 'live fast, die young' lifestyle that came with the heavier drugs, and was constantly berating Worth for his way of living.

"Is this some kind of cry for help?"

"You're not impressing anyone, you know."

"Live stupid, die stupid, stupid."

"You're gonna be the next Syd Barrett, you know that? Jesus, get your shit together."

Worth had learned a long time ago not to let what people said bog him down, and was often times snickering or introducing his fist to their face in retaliation, but when it came to Lamont, he merely chose to ignore most of what the man said. However, the things his dark haired friend said that _did_ manage to weasel their way into Worth's conscious managed to make him rethink a lot of things he thought he'd had down pat.

"Stupid."

It _was_ stupid. He didn't idolize those rock stars anymore (hell if he admit to idolizing anyone), so all that he was doing now was, well, stupid. Plain and simple. He really wasn't trying to impress anyone, and now he didn't feel the need to join those crazy, washed out druggies in their bar in the sky.

Sure, he still didn't like the idea of growing old and becoming incapable of taking care of himself and then having to, god forbid, _rely_ on other people to help him along, but to die at the age of 27 was a waste. It was outlandish and ridiculous when there was so many other things he now found pleasure in doing.

Like being a half-crazy, sadistic back-alley doctor.

So he stopped, found other outlets (ah, the joys of a blade), and went on living. It wasn't easy, and not a lot of it was enjoyable, as quitting cold turkey was hard as balls to do. But he'd done it anyway, because Luce Worth is tough as fucking nails and he'd be damned if a couple drug addictions were going to hold him down.

Of course he still smoked, drank on occasion, abused some of Hanna's runes and got high with Lamont more often than he should, but that was nothing compared to all the shit he'd done before. His life of self-destruction was over.

But still, something in his mind kept nagging at him, pulling and grasping for attention until he finally acknowledged it. He'd heard Hanna mention something about it, but he had to find out for himself.

"How old were y' when y' died, Confag?"

"Jesus, Worth, enough with the fucking _names_ already! And I was 27, asshole. What's it matter to you, anyway?"

Twenty-_fucking_-seven. That number seemed content to haunt him, even after he'd given up those dreams and desires. He refused, however, to become just another John Lennon and let a number fucking dominate his life.

"27 an' still a virgin. 'ow's that feel, Connie? To've died a virgin?"

"Oh _fuck you_ Worth. Just drop dead already, for fucks sake."

Inwardly, a part of him was slightly jealous. This stereotypical artfag douchebag had been able to join the 27 Club without really knowing what it was. The vampire hadn't even done a damn thing to get in, either. Conrad hadn't excessively drank, and nor did he seem capable to do anything stronger than to casually smoke marijuana every once in a while. So why, then, was he granted access to one of the most exclusive fuckin' clubs when he probably didn't even know it existed in the first place?

It was bullshit and entirely unfair, though, really, when had anything in Worth's life been exactly fair?

With a cackle at Conrad's expense and a slow drag of his cigarette, Worth decided then and there that any club that'd allow some stupid artfag yuppie to join when he'd tried most his life to get in was below him and undeserving of his grand person. Nevermind the fact that he wasn't 27 anymore, those fuckers couldn't have him even if they begged him to join. He was done with all that.

* * *

**A/N: **If you can spot the Pink Floyd reference, you get an internet cookie; and it's not the mention of Syd Barrett! I always thought the 27 Club would be something that would appeal to Worth, that is, of course, until he realizes Conrad's a part of it, dohoho.


End file.
